Spy Girl (Spy Girl #1)

“I will send my driver for you tomorrow at noon.”


“No.”

“But you just said you wanted—”

“You aren’t sending your driver. If you wanna hang out with me, you can come get me yourself. Or I’ll drive.”

“You did mention that you have a new car here. Care to drive me home?”

“Sure, why not?” I smile as I escort him down to the garage.

He whistles at the car I’ve been dying to get behind the wheel of and says, “This isn’t a street car, it’s a track car.”

I don’t know who was in charge of acquiring this car, but they get two big thumbs up from me. “I’m pretty sure it’s street legal. Besides, I’m with the Prince of Montrovia, I should be able to drive whatever I want, don’t you think?”

“This car is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“That’s because there were only two made. They had planned to make three, but the white carbon fiber proved to be difficult, so they only made two. It’s a Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita. Bad ass, right?”

“I’ll say. How did you get it?”

“I recently came into some money.” He raises his eyebrow at me, then looks at the car again. “Well,” I clarify, “it was quite a lot of money.”

“Roulette?” he laughs.

I lower my eyes and my voice. “My father passed away.”

He touches my hand gently. “My own father is gravely ill. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Are you spending a lot of time with him?”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“You should make the time. Even if it’s hard. My dad died suddenly. Massive heart attack.”

“But he didn’t suffer. It’s hard to watch your father, the King, a man who has always been larger than life, wither away.”

“I suppose, but trust me, you should be with him. Every day.”

“Will you come with me?” he asks with such emotion I have no other possible answer.

“Yes.”

“Maybe it will help you heal too, no?”

“Maybe. I didn’t know my father. My parents passed away when I was younger, and I recently got a call from an attorney asking me to come for the reading of a will. There, I discovered who my real father was and that I also have a brother. We are taking some time off to travel together. See the world. Get to know each other. Ari lost his parents too, so we’re the only family each other has.”

I’m surprised when he wraps me in a hug. “So much tragedy for someone so young.”

I allow him to console me. It’s really sweet.

“So are you ready to go for a ride?”

“Oh, I think so.”

We get buckled up and pull out of the drive. I take it easy through the city streets, giving people plenty of time to gawk at the car and take photos.

Ten minutes later, we’re winding up the hill to the castle and pulling through the gates. I take in my surroundings like I was trained to do.

“You have an airstrip up here.”

“Yes, for landing the royal jet.”

“Anyone planning on using it in the next few minutes?”

“I don’t believe so, why are you asking?”

I throw the car in neutral, rev the motor, and raise my eyebrows at him. “What do you say? I would love to see what she can do, and everything in Montrovia is really cliffy.”

“Cliffy?” He laughs. “Does that mean what I think?”

“What do you think it means?”

He gives me a smirk, shrugs his shoulders, and turns his hands sideways gesturing down at his pants.

“Cliffy. As in your hard, throbbing dick?” I ask, stifling a laugh.

He bites his lip, a little embarrassed. It’s sexy as hell.

“Cliffy means the roads are all on cliffs that I don’t want to drive off and splat into the Med. What you are referring to is a stiffy. A boner. Hot. Hard. Ready for action.”

“Oh, yes, stiff. That would make sense.”

I drive to the end of the runway. “You ready for this?”

He doesn’t get a chance to respond because I quickly rev the engine and drop the hammer. The tires scream for every ounce of grip they can find. I use the paddle shifters to switch gears, the car responding effortlessly. This car is stupid fast and since it has a super charger as opposed to a turbo, there isn’t the kick every time I shift. The car just rockets down the runway.

“How fast are you going?” the Prince yells. “Slow down.”

“I read you race cars for fun. You should be used to this.”

“There’s a difference. I’m not driving. A girl is.”

When I reach the other end of the runway—which happens really quickly—I slam on the brakes, downshift, and swing the car around ninety degrees to prove a point, then hit the throttle again.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, looking very nervous.

“We haven’t even hit top speed yet, but we’re going to try.”

“What’s her top speed?”

“Four hundred and ten kilometers per hour. That’s like triple the speed limit in America.” I push the car, finally getting it up to four hundred, before I have to stop at the other end of the runway. “Holy shit. Wasn’t that fun?”